


Green Witch

by Washedawaycloud



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Evil Author Day, MGiT, Modern Girl in Thedas, Witch in Thedas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:01:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22736857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Washedawaycloud/pseuds/Washedawaycloud
Summary: Etaine is your run of the mill witch, for Earth. On Thedas, she's a strange kind of mage who is uniquely viewed as connected to the Herald.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 63





	Green Witch

Etaine yawns widely as she deftly locks the door of a nondescript building. A bar for the magically inclined, for the supernaturally connected of the world. Not that there are many of them left. Witches, like her, are very rare; lack of belief has decimated covens, packs, and all manner of supernatural communities.

A hand pulls through her artificially whitened locks. Pin straight by way of spell, Etaine lets her mind wander. She’d made a memory potion tonight, for a guest, it isn’t a usual request. Memory potions are notoriously finicky. They either work, or they backfire. She’s seen it happen. The question posed to find the answer not strong enough, and the drinker loses something instead. Nasty business that.

Moving away from the door, pricking her finger, and not flinching at all, Etaine places her seal on the railing at the bottom of the stairs. No one will be able to through it until she comes back. Blood wards are extreme, but necessary lately. The world is going mad, no one is safe it seems. Pulling her hood up, the plump little witch makes for her apartment. Living in this part of the city isn’t necessarily dangerous, but Etaine doesn’t want any eyes on her today.

The wind is cool as she makes her way through the streets of Miami. It’s a blessing. By the time that sun comes up properly, it’ll be 80 again, and no one will be safe from the sweltering heat. Her apartment building is one of the older ones. Pretty, owned by a landlord who just wanted the building and didn’t want to do upkeep so had a bunch of renters and a staff that paid for itself. Smart, strange, but smart. Her key slides home and the lobby door opens for her with a gentle creaking noise. Up the flight of stairs, she goes taking them two at a time until she hits the third floor, panting gently before starting up again. By the 8th floor, she’s ready to be home, and shoulders her way into the hallway. Of the units in the building, particularly this one so close to the beach, there are only five per floor, and all are rather lovely.

But her home is the most magnificent to her eyes. Decorated in blush tones, filled with all nature of plants – the space is chaotically beautiful. Vines wrap through her mail separator, almost hiding the contents of it, a basket of cacti on her table, a table still covered in her breakfast dishes. Her rugs are plush beneath her feet, the white brightening all the rooms as she heads for her bedroom.

Her favorite room in the apartment. Boasting a huge window, it looks out onto the ocean. The beach is a part of that view, of course, but the ocean is what keeps her attentions. Smiling, as if she is greeting an old friend, Etaine settles on her bed. Her shoes are kicked off, hair wrapped up in a secure scarf, clothes shed quickly. A makeup wipe takes off the last traces of the night and Etaine falls back against her pillows, ready for dreams to take her. She’s safe here, her wards are strong, no one comes in without her permission.

Waking up is not peaceful in any way, shape, or form for the woman. Rocky outcrops surround her, landing in green tinted water. Nothing feels right. Normal. This pace makes her skin tingle, hair standing on end up the length of her arms. Entities that look like ghosts turn to her, and there is the  deep-seated need to run.

Picking herself up out of the water, Etaine runs. She doesn’t know where to, just that she needs to be away from there. Her feet slap wetly against the rock, she dodges past more of those ghosts, some who take interest, most who do not. The ones who follow, they make her heart beat rapid fire, like a rabbit who is frightened. A roar behind her makes her cry out, darting behind the nearest rock. A being like nothing she has ever seen before stomps past.

It has six eyes, small, but there, it looks almost metallic, silver meshing with purple, talons for fingers, horns on its head. It moves with purpose, barely giving her hiding place a look. It barrels forward, toward a light amidst the dull green. Abruptly she can hear voices. Shouting, cries of upset and fear. That feeling hits her again, and the woman runs for the light. Her strides are short, propelling her forward quickly.

The fall takes her completely by surprise, as well as the frigid air. Her cry as she plummets to the ground garners looks, she can hear people exclaim about her. She twists, mind frantically trying to find some way she won’t die a grisly broken death. Her being reaches out in the same span of time, calling for her magic. Nothing feels right about it when it comes. It sparks along her finger tips, in the palms of her hands, gathering from outside of her body.

Something she’ll have to deal with later, right now, the snow haired witch pulls wind to buffer her fall. It helps – barely. Her collision with the ground is still hard enough that she bounces and rolls. Sharp stabbing pain flows over her left side. Yelling still fills her ears, and she pushes herself up. Another cry rips from her lips, and someone hauls her upright around the waist. Her teeth grit and her breath  come in quick bursts through her nose, vision swimming.

She’s pressed tight against an unyielding surface, and her eyes flutter open to see – armor. A pauldrons against her cheek, her chest and right hand pressed against a cuirass? Or is it breast plate. She doesn’t know but her eyes slip  north, and she sucks in a breath. Pointed ears, tawny skin, eyes like gems.

“Hey Chuckles, how many is that now that have fallen from rift?” Varric can’t help himself. Not when that woman had fairly flown from the rift over head almost on the heels of the Pride demon. A mage to  match their warrior apparently, he’d seen the way she broke her fall. And Champion, he scoops her up after running to her, dragging her away from the fray before lifting his hand to make the mark connect with the rift.

“Two it would seem, Master Tethras.” The dry reply comes on the heels of a burst of ice along the field. That elf, Varric isn’t sure what to make of him. Claiming ancient heritage, and he uses magic like he was born flinging spells. Champion is wary of him, uneasy about the idea of an ancient being alive. Cassandra would like to clap him in irons, that is as clear as day on her face.

“Should we expect dwarva or Qunari next?” It’s a flippant question, right as the rift sends a shockwave through the field. He takes a quick look, only to find it still open. Cursing especially creatively when shades drop from the gaping hole into the Fade, the rogue misses Solas’ retort.

It feels like the battle is never going to end at this rate.

Her head hurts, her left arm and side are  throbbing, but the sight of nightmares makes her jolt into wakefulness. Two of them are gunning for them her, and her apparent savior. Protection, they need – a shield! Her magic is difficult  here but surges forth as she utters the words. First spell she had ever been taught by her mother. The single most important spell. It blooms across their skin and the nightmares come bearing down on them. The feeling is entirely different from what she’s used to. A sense of safety is what usually results from the  spell, but this manifestation makes her gawk, amazed.

He’s got to let go of the mage. Her shield is like nothing he’s ever felt before, but after the first swipe of a shade’s claws, it doesn’t fade either. She’s afforded them time. His arm releases the human, and she manages to keep herself upright. Battle focus no doubt. He takes hold of his sword and slashes. From here, things move quickly. That strange magic keeps washing over him, barrier after barrier, but she doesn’t seem to know any useful spells. No frost or fire magic, not even a hint of lightning.

Things fall into a rhythm. He keeps battering back the shades or wraiths when they appear, long enough for the archers and soldiers to take care of them, and then aims his hand at the rift. Every time pain lances through his body. The third time he does it, small hands wrap around his wrist, that woman is  standing in front of him, her lips whisper and suddenly the pain is gone. He feels none of the searing, cracking pain that he had the first three rifts, or the first two connections to this one.

But she does. Her flawless, rich deep olive face goes tight and ashen. The hands around his wrist turn into vices, but she doesn’t let him feel the pain, and he doesn’t disengage from the rift. She’s given him a gift, she’s helping him for no apparent reason, and he won’t waste the opportunity. Flicking green eyes up to the sicky green rift, Mahanon pulls at it with his will. It has to close, he can’t let these people die. He won’t let her gift be in vain.

“What the hell is that woman doing?” Varric and Solas are the last line of defense for the prisoner. He’d been alarmed when the small, yet amply curved mage clamps her hands around the kid’s wrist. Whatever the hell she’s doing, it’s giving Champion the boost he needs. His face isn’t so drawn, his teeth are still grit but in determination. It’s the girl who looks like she’s in pain now. Her features are twisted, face losing color.

“I –“Solas falters, eyes wide as he takes in the prisoner and woman who fell from the rift. She was taking his pain – a healing art few could accomplish- in any time. He hasn’t seen someone do that since he was but a General. “She is healing him.”

“Healing?!” Varric doesn’t believe it for a second, that woman was leaching away pain. Or blocking it. Directing it into herself. She had to be. The rift cracks, and another wave of demons appears. The Pride demon chortles, but it’s a pained sounding thing. Varric has time to see the mage collapsing to her knees before he turns to deal with the problem while it’s at its weakest.

Etaine feels her vision swim and the world goes fuzzy for a moment. The piercing stones under her knees barely register with her. Whatever the hell the man who’d hauled her to her feet was doing – it was killing him. The pain, she’s never felt pain like that. It’s indescribable even as her brain tries to figure it out. Her teeth ache, her tongue tastes as if she’d stuck her tongue to a live battery. All her limbs shake.

She needs to lay down. To make the world stop moving for just a few minutes. Etaine pitches forward, hair a pretty streamer behind her, when that arm curls around her, jostling aching ribs, and hauls her up. This time she feels weightless, like a ragdoll. Her feet won’t work, her legs won’t hold her weight. All she can do is cling to the man who looks like a thing of legend.

He’s losing her, and quickly at that. Her head lolls on her shoulders, brilliant eyes glassy and near rolling in their sockets. He won’t be fighting this time. He doesn’t feel the wash of her magic over them. All he can do is dart around the remains of the great statue of Andraste and thrust his hand at the rift again. The teeth numbing pain comes back again, and Mahanon swears. Her eyes stop moving as he struggles against the rift. Lethargically the mage follows the path of his eyes, his arm.

A hand so soft it startles him lays against his neck. She’s got no callouses on her fingers or palm, and she smells of a flower he isn’t familiar with. All at once the pain is gone. And his mage doesn’t hold her pain in this time. A keening wail leaves her lips, big eyes closing as her head rolls forward and leans against terrible excuse of a breast plate he’d been placed in.

Beneath the hand now on her back to keep her plastered against him, Mahanon feels how quickly her heart is beating, can feel the short breaths she takes. This is deteriorating. She’ll kill herself taking this pain from him. The warrior grimaces, lips pulling into a thin-lipped formation. His eyes are hard, squinted as he stares up at the rift and pulls it. This time the dying cry of the Pride demon heralds the crack of the rift giving in. A great pulse surges toward the sky, the worst of his pain leaves, leaves the woman, and then the backlash of the magic surges through them. He falls unconscious hearing his mage’s scream.

The Witch comes to feeling like she’s been on a two-week bender and not drank any water the whole time. She’s  face down on a pillow – feather if the softness is anything to go by, but the bed is lumpy. Oddly lumpy, the sheets scratchy. Not her sheets. She pushes herself upright, only to fop on her side as her left-hand protests the pressure she’d put on it. Hazel eyes narrow to slits as she turns her palm toward her face. On it there is a red raised welt, a rune. She can tell from the shape of it – nothing that odd is a letter.

But the real question is – what does it mean and where did she come by it? The last thing she remembers is searing pain and the green jacket of the man who kept her upright after she’d fallen through the sky. Rolling again, she pushes herself up with her right arm until she can do the rest by will of her abdominals alone. The blanket, a natural fiber for sure, falls off her shoulders, and she finds  herself in a shift with…. ruffles. The kind of shift people haven’t worn since the Victorian era for certain. At least not willingly if they were fashionable in any sense of the word.

A burst of cool air makes her shudder, and her eyes shift from her person around the room. It’s – rustic. The building is simple. Exposed beams, a wooden roof, windows without glass, the same wood making up shutters. Her bed is  roughhewn but well made. The scent of sweet hay filters into her awareness, the sharp smell of snow as well.

It’s been almost two decades since she saw snow last. The idea of it has her head tilting, and the woman climbing from her bed. She finds a trunk, a chair and desk, a second bed. She was sharing this place with someone. It makes her wary, she doesn’t know where she is – and thusly knows no one here. There are leather pants, lace up laid out for her, a shorter shift, a thick white wrap, a pair of panties, a leather vest and coat. The pants, vest, and coat are dyed. It surprises her given the simplicity of the shelter she’s found herself in. There is a fireplace, and candles, yet the clothes she’s been left are carefully dyed? Another whisper of wind has her setting aside her questions and removing the shift. She folds it, places it on the chair, and finds the basin and jug with almost frozen water.

Her teeth dig into her lip. Cold water, cold air. No thank you. Her right hand reaches out, tracing a series of Nordic runes against the porcelain. The jug glows, steam curls off the top of the water and Etaine smiles to herself still partially awestruck this has worked. In her apartment, she’d read old grimoires from her mother’s family, they date back to the Viking raids, those books spoke of spells working like this. Legends speak of spells manifesting truly in the real world, like the protection spell had. Washing is still a quick affair, the soap left is plain, smelling of lye and lard. She doesn’t let it touch her hair or face. She’ll figure out something else for that.

Speaking of her hair, she peers into the rippling water of the basin. Her hair is streaked with ash. Can’t be dirt – no dirt she’s seen colors white grey. Red, sure, yellow, yeah. Grey? Never. It prompts her to toss it up on her head in a bun that she ties with her own hair. The undergarments go on. The pants next, the wrapping she can’t make sense of, and leaves off. She’s busty, and this might be a problem, but the vest should take care of things. Hopefully. Maybe.

The gods must be looking out for her, because the vest is secured with ties. Ties she can use to cinch and secure her girls within the confines of the leather. Her hands smooth over her clothes before she tosses on stockings and boots. Clearly the stockings should have gone on first, but hindsight is 20/20. She folds the excess over the top of the boots, boots that don’t fit very well. In fact, nothing fits particularly well. Her pants are a touch too tight, the shift a bit too big.

Beggars can’t be choosers however, and she rolls the cuffs of her jacket before striding with purpose to the door. Easing it open, she finds men in armor. Their stationing by her door makes her blink, head tilting as she eyes them in turn. Both are clearly built like brick shit  houses, but she can’t see their faces. Just their eyes. Eyes that are searing into her for some reason.

“Um. Hello?” Her accent is jumbled, the sweet posh of her mother’s homeland clashing with the Cuban cadence she’d picked up in the area she’s chosen to live in in Miami. It’s not at all impressive to the men in armor, and one grunts at the other. Seriously. Grunts and the other one moves, turning sharply toward her. It makes her jerk back, almost reflexively murmuring the word for her shield. But the sword at his side doesn’t move, so Etaine hopes she’s safe.

“This way, Lady  _ Mage _ .” The mage is spit out like it’s a dirty word and Etaine’s face clouds.

“ ** Witch ** .” The word is sharp, and it draws the Templar up short.

“As you say, my lady. This way.” He gestures before taking the lead, careful to keep her in his sights. The other armored man takes up stride behind her, and they travel around the cabin, a spacious one as far as cabins go from the outside, onto a packed earth path. Snow lays at least two feet in depth all around and Etaine can’t keep from gawking. It’s so – pristine. There are hues of blue to it, but the glare of sun off it makes her have to avert her eyes to the path. The snow around the path is dirty, muddied, and when they come to a tent city – there are far worse things for it to be colored with.

After the fourth latrine that makes her eyes water and her stomach heave, Etaine tilts her eyes skyward. Blue, but tinged green. Not far away, that great hole in the sky swirls. It unnerves her to look at it. Her fine hairs stand on end and once more she looks for something, anything to take her attention away from it. The clash of metal draws her eyes, and she watches with wide eyes as men and women fight one another. Some with sword and shield, some with swords as tall as she is, some with deadly looking knives, and others are stationed at targets.

It’s something out of a fantasy movie, or a renaissance fair. But altogether too authentic to be either. She’s antsy by the time she’s escorted into the town. The weight of stares is getting to her, and not just the Templars. There are townspeople who stop and look at her with wide eyes. That doesn’t bode well. Not at all. The snow haired witch with black as night roots shrinks in on herself.

By the time, she’s been dropped off in front of a church, she’s got her arms crossed under her breasts, and her eyes trained on the ground. Her eyes slide up, seeing the small door cut into the larger one is open. Clearly, she’s meant to go inside, but she hesitates. Just for a moment before the cold chases her  into the stone building. Her steps echo in the sparsely populated building. It’s an odd church. There are no pews, no iconography, no altar.

Immediately her mind shifts to her own altar. Her figures of the pantheon, the small bowl filled with wine in sacrifice to her chosen patrons. The smudging sticks, the carefully cleaned surface of oak. She wants to go home.

“Ah, you’re awake. It would seem you and the boy have something of a connection.” A heavy almost Russian accent assaults her and she whips around, this time with the word of shielding on her lips already, the spell flaring to life. Wide eyes look at the woman who spoke. She’s imposing, easily six foot or perhaps just under, built like she’s going to take down walls with a single kick. There’s a scar on pale peach skin, an intense mouth with equally intense eyes.

“I – I’m sorry? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her words are hesitant, wary.

“The Herald. He woke not long before you did, Lady Healer.” The woman sweeps an arm toward the back of the church. Without another word, the amazon woman heads to the back. Etaine is left with little choice but to follow. Their steps echo and an irate voice can be heard from the last door. The man from earlier, the one who helped her to stand, is hovering by the door, his face betraying his unimpressed attitude with what’s being said behind the door.

The amazon woman all but kicks the door open, and two more of those armored fellows are immediately seen. A woman in purple, a man in red and white robes. A hand settles on the small of her back and propels her into the room.

“Chain them!” It’s the start of a wonderful interaction complete with a good deal of yelling. Not from either of them, but between the man calling for her detainment, and the Russian amazon.

“So – just like that, we’re free?” After some thirty minutes of dealing with the chancellor, Etaine finally speaks. The Herald, her savior, leans his hip against the worn war table, looking concerned, scowling if the truth is to be told.

“Yes. Just like that.” The redheaded French woman replies quickly. Etaine doesn’t quite trust her. There’s something off with that one. Something sinister lingering just under her skin.

“ So, I can go home? We can both go home?” She unconsciously offers her left hand to indicate the elven man.

“That would not be wise. You are now a mage of some repute, keeping the Herald from dying. He is known to be the Herald of Andraste, present at the time the Divine died. Neither of you will be safe without the Inquisition’s banner at your back.” This from the Russian – Pentaghast. Etaine grinds her teeth, hand clenching when a deceptively gentle one catches her wrist.

“And this will not help you.” Leliana forces open Etaine’s palm, the rune that throbs red, eerily similar to the green that sometimes sparks in the warrior’s hand, making it visible to the room. “You’re marked as holy. Known to have kept the Herald alive during the time he was weakest. This is your warrant should you come across any rogue Templars.”

“Holy?” She hisses out the question, gaining no answer, when a gloved thumb smooths over her palm. It hurts still, and it makes her jerk her hand from Leliana’s hold. “No one where I’m from would call me Holy. I think you’ve got things mixed up.”

“ So, we have no choice, really, but to work with you, to find the Divine’s murderer and hopefully close the hole into the Fade?” His voice is low, and he feels caged. Mahanon has never been a person to be coerced. He bucked against authority and it was one of the reasons he’d been chosen to head the spy mission to this damned shemlen conclave. His sister the first of their clan had practically begged him to go. It was no secret half the clan hoped he would find some woman at that next  **_ Arlathvan _ ** and leave.

“You’ve always a choice, Herald. But the choices are not as freeing as either of you, would no doubt like.”

“I’ll take my chances. Witches have stood against worse in the past. Just…point me to the nearest train station headed for Miami.” Etaine faces the women, her shoulders squared, jaw set.

“Where?” Three sets of eyes pin her to the spot she stands on and Etaine’s face falls.

“Miami,” the pleasingly curved, though terribly human mage – witch by her own labeling, repeats. It’s a strange word, and he has heard of no such town, city, or city state in Thedas. Mahanon eyes her, the nameless female who had kept him from immense pain. She’s got lovely almond eyes, tilted up at the  outer corners just a touch, a proud jawline, lush mouth, and small button nose. He doesn’t even know her name.

“There is no such place.” The woman, redheaded and hidden in her hood, nods at the table top. Those eyes, eyes he’s seen glassy from pain, are wary now, frightened as she steps forward three strides and looks down. Her hands slap against the table as she looks like she might buckle. His arm shoots out, dragging her against his side. A reflex, not something he thought to do or particularly wanted to do.

“Where am I?” Her voice, that soft smoky alto, is strained, high pitched in her fear.

“Thedas, Lady Healer.”

A tear  falls and he can practically smell her fear as her body shudders against his side. “E-Etaine. My name is  ** Etaine ** .”

Mahanon sits in front his cabin, an arm slung across a drawn-up knee, listening to the bustle of the shemlen town. From the moment he’d woken up, nothing seemed right. He was in constant pain, he’d been spit at, threatened six ways from  **_ Elgara’vunin _ ** , backed into a corner to prove his innocence. It is maddening, that he’s now called Herald of Andraste.

Andraste, the shemlen goddess. Or what amounted to it. They seem to worship her more than her supposed husband – the Maker. His fingers press to his brow, and he breathes deeply to stave off what promises to be a spectacular headache. Humans look to him for their safety, all in the span of four days. He has even been given a human protector.

What irony is that? A warrior given a human mage as his personal savior. The woman who fell from the rift in the temple. She is a mystery. She’s not far off his sister in height, perhaps a hand taller, and near  equal to him. Though, neither of them can hope to compare to Cassandra or Cullen or even Solas. Just thinking of the other elven man in his ‘inner circle’ makes him scowl. An ancient. Could he really?

What are the odds that an ancestor from the times of their freedom still lived. And if Solas is of that time, of the People, why does he have no facial tattoo, how many others are alive as well? Why had no one known of him? No one had spoken of it at the annual gathering, and Mahanon was quite the gossip when the mood struck him. Not that any of these people would know it.

A scraped hand comes into his line of sight, a bowl of stew clasped in it. His eyes travel up the arm, clad in a leather jacket with its cuffs rolled up, to the rest of Etaine. Woman of another realm. His Gods sent healer.

That at least, he will not argue with. She’d sucked the pain from him, shielded him and now bears his burden after a fashion. Her rune scarred hand marks her as his. Barbaric if one thought about it too carefully. The humans saw her as his, not his companion, not his partner in the coming trial, but his pawn, a piece laid upon a chess board all in favor of the white king’s protection.

“You know,” her accent slides across him, making the hunter jerk into the present again. “If you continue to scowl like that, you’ll find yourself with grey hair faster than you’d like.” 

He accepts the bowl, fishing his spoon from his belt pouch as she takes a seat beside him. She lets her right leg stretch out before her, while the right folds up to her chest, arms slung across it, her chin on top of them. Despite Mahanon’s actions during the closing of the first rift, he isn’t comfortable around humans. He’s rarely been around them, and more often than not the Clan would hear tales of woe from flat ears who ran to them. So, while Etaine is not like the average human, she is still human, and he has no idea how to deal with her.

“Quiet, huh?” Her eyes slide to him, strikingly amber at the moment. “That’s okay. I get it. A lot of shit has done down in basically no time at all. I don’t get quiet in situations like this, I get talkative. This is probably the most I’ve spoken in weeks.” And that is entirely true, Etaine prefers quiet and solitude, but right now, Mahanon is the only person she can lean on. She’s not even really sure if she can do that.

He eats quietly, eyes settling on her for maybe a single breath before those gems move away. It’s a little upsetting. Is she making him uncomfortable? Why wouldn’t he say if she was. All of a sudden Etaine feels small, and very alone. The light in her face snuffs out and she curls in on herself without realizing it. Mahanon sees it all from his periphery but says nothing until she’s up off the steps walking away.

“Why are you here, Lady Etaine?”

Of all the question she could be asked, of course he chooses that one. She sends a look over her shoulder, black arched brow up in question. “What makes you think I know, Sir Herald?”

He chuckles, bowl set aside for a moment. “No, you misunderstand. Not why are you here, in Thedas. Why are you here, with me? “

That white hair, dirty white hair, shifts with her head, pretty eyes blinking in a confused manner. She is lovely, in a way. “Because, you are the only one I trust.”

Page Break

Etaine kept to herself after those first interactions with the people of Thedas. She didn’t venture out, and no one ventured in. Those men at her door, knights or something, bring her food,  weak ale, heavily salted meat, and cheese. She feels like a prisoner, but it could be so much worse than this. Her fear is what keeps her here, truthfully.  This isn’t her world. Those people aren’t her people, not even the humans, and certainly not the mages who are kept under lock and key. 

It horrifies her to have to use a chamber pot, and what’s more is she feels dirty constantly. Sink baths do not for the cleanest people make, but she won’t  go find anyone to see if there is a more conventional tub situation she can use. The Healer, that’s what they’d called her. Mage. Lady Healer. She barely felt like a person with words like that hovering over her. 

Really it had been Mahanon’s question that drove home how out of her league she was. 


End file.
